


The Starsky and Hutchinson

by hutchynstarsk



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: AU, Gen, Science Fiction, the fix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all these years, Hutch sees Starsky...and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Starsky and Hutchinson

**Author's Note:**

> AU – science fiction 
> 
> related to “The Fix”
> 
> Rated R
> 
> Warning: Contains drug use

**The Starsky and Hutchinson**

by Allie

 

The ship’s name caught Hutch’s eye, almost before the bright red of its showy hull and the splashy white stripe across it.

The Starsky and Hutchinson. A long, awkward name for a spaceship. And what were the odds of the name combination existing elsewhere in the galaxy?

He found himself waiting in the shadows of the dock, hoping for and dreading the sight of a certain familiar curly hair and bouncy step. Starsky, in all his glory, as remembered by the man who had once been his best friend in the world.

_Starsky._

The thought brought sweet, nostalgic pleasure and a deep, rippling sense of pain and shame. If he’d been stronger, he wouldn’t have lost Starsky, wouldn’t have lost that old life at all.

He gulped, hard. _I needed you, Starsk,_ he thought, with the twisting sense of wrongness that had never quite left him. _I needed you, but I couldn’t let you get involved._

He almost turned away before he could see the pilot exit the fancy space ship. If it was Starsky—his Starsky—then he’d come up in the world, and good for him. He deserved some good fortune for once, instead of getting stuck with a weak, useless man like Hutch for a partner. But somehow he couldn’t look away.

In spite of himself, in spite of thinking he was prepared, Hutch’s breath caught in his throat. There he was: Starsky. His hair was a little longer than it had been just out of the academy, the curls more pronounced, bouncier. He still walked like he owned the street, a rolling sort of walk, a powerful, don’t-mess-with-me walk, yet for all that, good natured. Starsky, the toughest man Hutch knew, had been a conundrum, because he was also the gentlest guy, and could seem like just a big kid.

Who else still collected space ship models as a grown man? Who else could spout weird facts faster and take more delight in them than anyone else alive? Who else still believed in Christmas with the glee of a big kid (even though he was Jewish), or thought the best place on earth was whatever little salmonella-heaven, hole-in-the-wall heartburn palace he’d just found to eat at?

 _My buddy, Starsky._ Even though it hurt to see him again, it also felt so good. Hutch felt the smile curve his lips in remembered happiness. He remembered walking next to Starsky, who let him complain if he was depressed, and tried to cheer him up. Watching old movies with Starsky, who could quote the dialogue back at the screen but still got indignant if you switched the movie off early. Sitting up late with Starsky, back in the academy when they were supposed to be studying and instead talking, talking, talking. 

There never was anybody he liked talking to as much as Starsky. Never anybody else he’d told all about his life and the things he cared about, except Starsky. Just never, anywhere, anybody quite like Starsk. His buddy, his irritation, his partner, and the man who’d trusted him with his life.

And that, of course, was one of the reasons Hutch had needed to run, and keep running.

 _All it takes is a couple of villains with a needle, and bob’s your uncle, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know._ Hutch’s mouth twisted down in shame. The never-quite-gone sensation in his veins told him he needed to use again, and soon, or the pain would start. 

He’d done his best to limit and control the addiction. It ate at him every day, and he hated it, but at the same time, it was his best friend, all he had left, and the only thing that kept him at all functional. So he did his damndest to keep it under control, to keep himself alive and safe and working, till maybe he could get better, someday, maybe.

So now of course, even though he badly needed the work unloading cargo, he didn’t move forward to join those waiting for Starsky to pick hands for loading and unloading his cargo or supplies, or shining the outside, helping with the fueling, detailing the inside, etc.

He moved back into the shadows. 

But he didn’t move fast enough.

Over there, someone was talking to Starsky, and Starsky asked him something. The man pointed in Hutch’s direction, pointed right at the beam he was leaning against, the shadows he was half hidden in.

As if in a dream, Hutch saw Starsky’s head turn, and his gaze inexorably find Hutch, as if he’d known he’d be there. Hutch was pinned, pinned like a butterfly by those startling, betrayed, deep blue eyes. Stumbling a little, he began to backpedal, tripping over his shoes in his haste.

“Hutch!” shouted Starsky, sounding like a drowning man asking to be saved, and he was running, his sneakers squeaking on the hanger’s floor, his run as fast as it used to be.

_No, no, no! No, he can’t… I’m dead. He’s supposed to think I’m dead!_

Instinctively, fear making his heart yammer hard, Hutch turned and ran. 

“Hutch, Hutch, Hutch! Stop!” 

And then strong arms caught Hutch around the middle and pulled him down, in a football tackle, knees ringing to the hanger floor, thump. Panting, two bodies entangled, and Starsky’s breath harsh sounding like sobbing in his ears. 

“Hutch.” Starsky pushed his face against Hutch’s neck, hard, and his hands didn’t loosen, as if he never wanted to let go.

Hutch’s hands were shaking. “I don’t know what you’re…” His voice cracked.

“You are too Hutch! Shut up!” Starsky backed off now, but without letting go of his arm. He gave Hutch a shake, turned him around, and glared at him.

There were. There were tears in his eyes, making them wet-looking, with a couple of droplets collecting on his bottom lashes. It hurt to look at, Starsky still as vulnerable to him as ever he’d been. Vulnerable to Hutch’s infinite variety of ways to hurt him. To still hurt him, after all this time.

“Starsk, let me go,” he pleaded. “Just… let me go. Forget you saw me. Don’t tell anyone.”

“You mean like your family? You selfish, bastard Blintz!” He shook Hutch’s arm harder now; he was crying in earnest. “You know how much it hurt your mom, when you just d-disappeared? They don’t even know if you’re dead or alive!”

In spite of himself, a harsh laugh escaped Hutch’s aching throat. “They’d wish I was dead if they knew.”

“Knew what?” Starsky’s gaze was sharp indeed, the same intelligent quickness that had made him top of his class next to Hutch still showing in his eyes. After all, he hadn’t been drugging himself for years…

“Starsk,” said Hutch. There was no avoiding it, now. And maybe, if he knew, he’d finally leave Hutch alone. _(After his face registered repugnance, please God no, not that, not hatred and disgust, I can’t stand it.)_ Hutch bit his lip. Slowly, he pushed up his sleeve, hardened his fist so his veins stood out a little, and the dark, ugly marks of needles. Lots and lots of needles.

He closed his eyes a moment. “This, okay, Starsky? This. I d-didn’t mean to. They caught me. Th-they wanted to know about m-my ex-girlfriend.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. They got me hooked. They got what they wanted and dumped me. Were going to kill me, but I ran. I’ve been running ever since.”

Starsky stared at him, belligerent, reproachful, the tears still in his eyes. “Why didn’t you find me?”

“Don’t you see, Starsk? If I’d… I’d have pulled you down with me! We were new at the whole cop thing. If I was found to be on drugs, excuses wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing would’ve mattered but getting those dirty, hooked cops off the force. You too. You wouldn’t have been safe.” He reached out and poked Starsky in the arm.

The touch reminded him achingly of how much he missed Starsky. Because they’d been that comfortable with each other: comfortable enough to touch, to goad, to sling arms round each other, to ruffle hair, to pat thighs, to hug.

And Hutch had loved it, all of it. Starsky’s easy, caring nature made him approachable and touchable. He gave Hutch some of the affection he’d always wished for but never really had. Starsky’s family and his had seemed like opposites: the South Pole versus some beautiful tropical island, Starsky’s family loud and large and full of intrusive questions and hugs and too much food, Hutch’s quiet and contained, small and organized and achingly polite to everyone, barbs hidden but felt, affection hidden and hoped for, guessed at.

“Hutch.” Starsky was sitting with his legs tucked under his thighs, in front of Hutch. His gaze was earnest, and his hands were gentle but firm as he took Hutch’s arms and looked straight into his gaze. “Idiot. I left the force when we couldn’t find you. I couldn’t be a cop without my partner. I looked for you, okay? I never really stopped looking.” He gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing, and jerked his chin back towards the ship. “Why do you think I named her after us, huh? In case somebody… so somebody would recognize… so I’d find you. Just in case.” He gave Hutch a shake, a rather gentle one, but it was enough to shake Hutch’s whole body, because he had gone loose and limp in it. 

He couldn’t have torn his gaze away from Starsky if his life depended on it. “Why?” Just one word, croaked out as if it was his last.

“Because, you bozo.” Starsky gave a broken half laugh and pulled him into a hug. One hand rubbed a comforting circle on Hutch’s back and his other squeezed Hutch’s arm, tight.

His eyes blurred too much to see out of, throat hurt too much to talk past. Hutch didn’t quite dare let himself hold onto Starsky in return, but he sank into the comfort of that hug as if he’d been dying for lack of it.

Eventually, Starsky drew back and looked Hutch firmly in the eyes. His were still shiny and bright with emotion. “I knew, you bozo. I tore the streets apart. I got rumblings, about somebody catching you because they wanted information. It took awhile, but I found out: Huggy helped me.”

“Hug…?” Hutch’s mind flitted back to Starsky’s friend and their informant. A slim, smiling black man with a kindness undiminished by his constant business plans for making money. A gentle guy with eyes that had seen too much and never told half of what they’d seen.

“Yeah, moron. Huggy didn’t want to see you gone, either. None of us did. Dobey even gave me time off.”

Hutch blinked. Their boss was a good man, but nobody would’ve called him an easy mark. Giving anybody time off unless they’d had a life-threatening injury just wasn’t his protocol. He must’ve been really worried… about Hutch, or Starsky.

“And I found out. I busted a few heads, and it seemed like I bribed half the city, but eventually I found out. And Hutch, why didn’t you come to me? I’d have helped you. I’d have… have poured out half my life’s blood for you. Why’d you run?” He shook Hutch’s shoulders again.

This time, Hutch couldn’t meet his gaze. It dropped miserably to look at the floor. Starsky’s thighs were still clad in that type of comfortable, worn jeans he’d always liked. His knees, everything about him, looked so familiar it hurt with a deep-down ache worse than needing a hit.

“I know,” said Hutch, so ashamed he couldn’t bear it. “Don’t you see? Starsk? I’d have pulled you down with me. I—I was worthless at that point. What did it matter what happened to me? If I’d been brave enough I should’ve let them kill me. But whatever happened, I couldn’t drag you down, too.” He shrugged helplessly. “So I ran.”

“Did you ever think I could’ve helped you, you moron?” Starsky’s voice shook.

Hutch slowly shook his head. “I needed you. I wanted you. But I knew very well nobody could help me.”

Slowly, he began to withdraw from those hands, though it hurt very much to leave the one real comfort he’d had since this whole nightmare began.

“I love you Starsky,” he said quietly, “and I love my family. But that’s why I have to go. For everybody’s sakes, please just forget you saw me.”

“If you think I’ll do that, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought. No, bozo!” Another shake, hands digging into his shoulders, Starsky’s face hard with determination and anger. “You’re not! You know drug use is illegal. Well I’ll—I’ll turn you in to the police, unless you—you hire on with me on my ship.” His throat bobbed, hard. “I need an extra hand anyway. Please come, Hutch.”

For long moments, they stared at each other. Hutch almost felt like he could feel each of their hearts beating. Everything in his head screamed that it was a bad idea, the worst idea, would only hurt them both worse. After all, he was a druggie now, and Starsky was a trader or something; but he still didn’t need Hutch dragging him down. 

But his heart… his heart screamed louder. He might as well gash it open, bleed out on the floor, and die right here, if he said no to Starsky this one last time.

“I’ll go with you,” said Hutch in a tiny voice. “I mean… I’ll… I’ll hire on. I’ll do the best I can…” He didn’t get to finish. Starsky crushed him in another suffocating, oh-so-welcome hug.

#

Hutch pushed around the reconstituted food packet on his plate. He probably wouldn’t have had any appetite for it even if he wasn’t feeling queasy and sweaty. Starsky always had favored really disgusting food: greasy pizza, artificial nachos, and too-spicy chili.

Starsky sat down beside him, pulling out one of the galley’s metal chairs. “You should try the chili, Hutch. Boy, is it spicy!” 

The smell wafted towards Hutch, and he jerked to his feet and bolted towards the bathroom, covering his mouth with both hands. 

He was still retching when Starsky joined him, his touch light and warm on Hutch’s back, his voice mournful. “Hutch? You okay?” He rubbed Hutch’s back gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you hated chili _that_ much…”

Hutch shook his head, trying to contain his gag reflexes. He was already dry heaving. “It’s not—you.”

“Oh.” Starsky sat back on his heels. “Then… Hutch? Are you…?” His voice was hesitant, worried. “Are you tryin’ to quit?”

_I knew quitting would be difficult, but I didn’t think he’d catch on so soon…_

Miserably, Hutch nodded, squeezing his eyes shut against the shame. 

How could he go on being an addict when Starsky still loved him, still cared about him and wanted him around? He couldn’t, that’s what. He just couldn’t.

Starsky took a deep, shaky breath. “Well, partner, I don’t want you to quit. Not yet. You see, we’re heading towards a facility where they can help you. I’ve arranged it all. I hoped I’d be able to talk to you into it by the time we got there. Didn’t think I’d have to talk you into waiting. Don’t do this to yourself, Hutch. It hurts too much. Wait. Wait till it can be as easy as it can be for you. I can’t stand to see you hurting if there’s any alternative.” He gave Hutch’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and retreated. 

Hutch stayed hung over the toilet bowl, waiting for the nausea to retreat enough that he could leave. But shortly, the soft sound of Starsky’s sneakers returned. “Here, Hutch,” he said, kneeling beside him, his hands gentle and his voice soft. “I bought enough to tide you over on the trip, till we get there. You should work your way down if you can, of course, but don’t go cold turkey, babe. Not after all these years takin’ it. I don’t think either of us could stand it.”

Hutch pulled back and gaped at him. 

Starsky held a prepared needle in one hand. “You’ll have to help me, partner. I don’t really know what I’m doing.” His smile showed that, despite his calm words, he was nervous.

“You—you bought drugs for me?” Hutch’s voice broke a little. “But—why, Starsk?”

Starsky’s face was so very earnest. “I told you. I don’t want you to quit till you can do it the right way and get all the help there is. Now. What do I do next? Or do you want to do it?” He smiled, or tried to. “Don’t worry. It’s a fresh needle. I bought a bunch of them.” He bit his lip and tried to smile again, but his eyes were so worried.

Hutch’s mouth wobbled. “Starsk, h-how much is in here?”

Starsky told him. “I got the dealer to show me how to fix it.” And he described what he’d done. 

Hutch just stared at him. The Starsky he knew would never in a million years have had anything to do with drugs and needles.

“Well?” said Starsky. 

Slowly, Hutch took the needle from him. If he took half, it would be less than he was used to, but enough to stop the withdrawal. If he could bring himself to just take half. He began to roll up his sleeve. His whole body was shaking a little now, and the sweating and nausea were intense; the needle was the most important thing in the world. But he didn’t want it to be. Not anymore.

“Wait,” said Starsky, as Hutch began to find a vein. He hopped up, and returned with a bit of cotton soaked in rubbing alcohol. He rubbed the spot carefully, leaving it feeling very cold and cleansed. “Don’t want you getting any germs.”

Hutch was crying now; couldn’t stop the fat, hot tears from sliding down his cheeks. The needle shook. Still he hesitated. “I want to quit, Starsk. I’m so tired of being controlled by this. But I don’t think I’m strong enough. I’m so sorry.”

“C’mere. Shh. We’re strong enough together.” Carefully, he pried the needle from Hutch’s hands. “How much?” 

“H-half.”

At Hutch’s miserable answer, he found the vein and very carefully turned the bright, sweet, mellow lights on inside Hutch. Shivering stopped; the awful sensitivity to everything stopped; the hollow misery stopped, and Hutch floated on a sea of comfort. He let out a hedonistic sigh. Nothing hurt. Nothing could hurt him here, now.

“We’ll get you out of it together, Hutch.” Starsky’s voice shook. His arms were going around Hutch, pulling him close, tugging him into a hug. “It’ll be all right. I’ve got you, Blintz. I’ve got you.”

His hands rubbed a comforting circle on Hutch’s back, music of their own; and the sweet, siren song of the drug pulled Hutch into its safe cave.

He wanted the other half.

#

 

 

part 2

 

It was a long trip, just two men alone in a tin can in space (though Starsky didn’t like to hear his baby called that). There wasn’t much to do, except get to know each other again.

Starsky got to know Hutch’s drug habit pretty well, too. He kept all judgment from his voice, but he didn’t have to act disgusted, or say how much he hated it; Hutch could see in his friend’s eyes how much it hurt to watch him this way, with this addiction.

He hated himself more than Starsky ever could. And somehow, impossibly, Starsky really did seem to see him as a friend. After all this time, everything between them, and the drugs Hutch was still reliant on.

It was surprisingly wonderful and unexpected to be able to talk to him again, at first cautiously, renewing old lines of communication, then more easily, discovering that the places they’d each held for the other were still in their hearts. Words flowed easily between them, and sometimes, even words weren’t necessary. Hutch reveled in the physical affection Starsky was still willing to show, his hugs, arm squeezes, pats, and playful swats.

When Hutch was up for it, Starsky also taught Hutch all he could about his business.

Starsky had done well for himself, transporting medical supplies and other high-end, quickly needed cargo that couldn’t wait for the slower, cheaper ships. Starsky’s spiffy, fast ship had earned a reputation for trustworthy, speedy delivery. Despite the high costs of running her and frequent need for part upgrades from Merle (the best spaceship mechanic on this side of the universe, to hear Starsky talk), he was putting away a tidy sum every year.

It hadn’t been his first choice, but when he gave up being a cop, he’d done well for himself. And he’d always loved spaceships. Hutch remembered the models he used to build, on his days off.

Starsky was a little older with just a touch of gray in his curls now. Sleek, well-fed, healthy and strong, and so often more serious now, some days he didn’t remind Hutch of the silly, tough, ragged young man from the academy at all. And then the years fell away and they were just the same as ever they’d been, chortling over a joke together, as if no time had passed whatsoever.

Starsky said Hutch was too skinny, needed to eat more. He said Hutch needed a haircut, and he took matters into his own hands, sitting Hutch down in the galley one day and making a great show of clipping and snipping. When he finished, standing back proudly and grinning, he pronounced Hutch a “big beautiful blond,” and gave him a swat when he want to look at himself in the mirror. 

Hutch regarded himself skeptically. His face was easier to see, without so much scraggly hair. He supposed it took a few years away; but there was certainly nothing beautiful about the haggard, lined face he’d acquired. Or the shame in his eyes.

#

Hutch stood on the threshold of the facility, facing the outside world uncertainly. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel either influenced by drugs or in need of drugs. 

It was a weird sensation, being clean after all this time: a fragile feeling, the purity and danger of unaltered perception. When things were difficult, you couldn’t just escape. But on the other hand, nothing controlled you, nothing sang poison and fire in your veins, demanding more, debasing you and seeming to steal your free will.

But now he had it. He was free—of a sort. He shifted his hands awkwardly on the handle of his luggage. Again, his eyes shifted right then left then right over the passing crowd. 

The building where he’d spent the last long weeks didn’t look like a drug rehab center (whatever they looked like), and it wasn’t labeled so on the outside; as far as anyone passing knew, he could be anyone, leaving anywhere. A fresh start.

Except that fresh start was supposed to have Starsky meeting him out front, right now. And Starsky wasn’t here.

With a heavy heart, Hutch shouldered his bag and stepped out into the street. It felt surprisingly less wonderful to be clean and free than it should’ve. 

He headed for the docks. Needed to find some kind of work. It wasn’t as though he had a bunch of money saved up and could wait till he felt like it to find a job. 

As he walked, he tried to convince himself Starsky had already done more than enough—by finding him, bringing him safely to a rehab facility, and even paying for it. 

But it still hurt that Starsky hadn’t come.

#

Hutch walked the docks. He hurt. Not a physical hurt, but an emotional one. Passing a certain street corner, his skin tingled. He’d been to this world once, and bought drugs on that very street. He could go back and buy more, right now.

This was almost worse than knowing his body demanded it; to know that his addiction had been at least partly mental. Of course it was: all the years he’d spent running, it had been his only real companion, his only comfort.

But that was the laugh, wasn’t it? Because it hadn’t been real. It hadn’t been real at all.

_But I thought Starsky was, and I thought he was letting me back into his life, but now he’s gone._

For a moment, Hutch really wavered. For a moment. He could go back. Nobody wanted or needed him or gave two shits about what happened to him. He could go all the way this time, let the drugs consume him and bring him down in sweet hazy horror he didn’t have to feel, until he died.

He wouldn’t be the first.

But the moment passed, he strode past the alley, and moved on, free. Perhaps not forever. Perhaps he’d have to fight that thought whenever he walked by certain alleys, certain memories. But he couldn’t throw his life away, not when Starsky had believed in him, searched for him, rescued him. At least for a while.

 _Even if I never see him again, even if he has no use for me now._ Hutch needed to be true to the memory of the man who had searched.

He kept walking, kept looking for work on the docks. Eventually, he might be able to move away from here, from the memories, go to a colony he’d never visited, or even back to Earth. 

He didn’t know if he wanted to see his family again. He wasn’t ready for the questions, guilt, and recriminations. That would be too much right now, probably drive him back to drugs quicker than anything else. But perhaps someday he would even be ready for that.

And maybe, someday, he would see Starsky again, and they would even be friends of a sort, or at least smile and mean it. Maybe they’d reminisce briefly about the old days, before Starsky moved on again to his good job, his good life.

Hutch swallowed. It still hurt; of course it did. It would hurt for a while, probably. But he just had to use the techniques he’d learned. Reframe it, not take it all on his shoulders. Starsky had to do what was best to help him in his life, and Hutch couldn’t let what disappointed him drag him down, or accept blame for every bad thing that crossed anyone near him.

And if he thought about it like that, of course it wasn’t as hard. He wanted Starsky to be happy. So… let him go.

Yeah.

_I’ll let you go, Starsk. I promise. It just… might take me a little time. Because I thought…_

_Doesn’t matter. I’ll let you go._

#

It was mid-afternoon when he saw that familiar walk, the bouncy curls and ultra confident, quick walk of a Starsky who could intimidate or charm whoever he met, and be the best friend Hutch had ever had.

That Starsky was shouldering his way through the crowd, standing tall, craning his neck, trying to see over shoulders. He was hurrying, and worry crowded his normally fearless features.

 _What’s he looking for?_ Hutch stopped, something hopeful and nervous curling in his chest. _Me?_

He flexed his hand on his bag’s handles, telling himself not to hope, not to let hopes get dashed again. Starsky was… looking for a client. Or something. It ached to think it; it ached to let go. 

Biting his lip, Hutch forced himself to keep walking, keep calm, stay in control of his feelings. He wasn’t going to bleed all over Starsky with his emotions, or demand more of him than he should. He was going to have boundaries, and remember people needed to make their own decisions and everything wasn’t his fault, and he was going to—

Hutch glanced back in time to see the restless blue gaze scanning the crowd—and stop on Hutch. He stopped. Starsky bounded forward. “Hutch!” Loudly, like he didn’t care who heard.

Hutch swallowed hard, gripping and twisting his bag’s handles. _I can’t do this again, Starsk. Don’t get my hopes up and hurt me. Please just… please._

He didn’t even know what he was silently asking Starsky, only that if his friend had searched him out just to say goodbye it was going to be a lot harder for the rest of the day to walk past those dark spots in the city.

_Please._

“Hutch.” Starsky reached him and halted, catching hold of his arms and looking into his face, searching and worried. “Babe. You okay?” He gave Hutch a little shake.

Hutch nodded. 

“Then why didn’t you wait, huh? I got held up in traffic. C’mon, Hutch! You could spare a guy a couple minutes.” He let go with one hand and ran his fingers back through his curls, halfway glaring at Hutch now. One thing was for certain: Starsky didn’t have his emotions under control. He wasn’t calmly letting go. And if he was saying goodbye, he wasn’t doing that calmly, either.

Hutch waited mutely for the verdict. Miserable, mute, and—hoping.

“There’s one thing I forgot to tell you,” said Starsky. He took a deep, shaky breath. “No, two things. You remember that… no, I—I have to tell it in the right order. Hutch.” Another shake, not rough but very emotional, as if he couldn’t stand to let go.

“Okay, Starsk. I’m listening,” said Hutch softly, trying to keep all feeling from his voice, to stay calm and let Starsky say whatever he had to.

Starsky took a deep breath and met Hutch’s gaze levelly. “Babe, when you left me, I—I wasn’t right. For a long time. I couldn’t believe you’d do that, for any reason. I thought, ‘That’s it, they killed him. Hutch wouldn’t leave me.’”

“Starsk, I—” He brought a hand up, tentatively, bringing fingers to rest on Starsky’s side. “I’m sorr—”

“Shut up and let me finish!” Another shake; Starsky’s eyes flashed. He looked as fierce as if he was interrogating someone. 

Hutch shut up.

Starsky continued, his eyes very blue, and filled with pain. “I get it now. I understand. But Hutch, you don’t get to do it again. You don’t get to walk away and leave me again. That was it, that was the one time. Because if you do it again, Hutchinson, just walk away from me without explanation, throw away our friendship—our trust—like it meant nothing, then I swear I’ll—I’ll let you.” He drew back, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “And that’s the worst thing I can say, Hutchinson. Don’t you dare leave me. Don’t you dare.” He shook his head slowly, tears gleaming in his eyes.

Around them, traffic flowed. People passed, and they were too focused on each other to notice or care. Hutch realized he still held his bag. He put it down, and enveloped Starsky in his arms, carefully, as if it was what he’d meant to do all along.

Starsky returned the hug with limpet-like gripping power. As if he would never let go.

They hugged in the middle of the street, not caring about anything else. When they moved, catching up Hutch’s luggage, their arms stayed around each other’s backs.

Together, they walked to a nearby coffee shop. Snagging a little table outside, they drank iced coffees and regained their emotional equanimity. 

Starsky still slurped when he got to the bottom of the cup. He slurped long and loud, and to Hutch, it was now one of the most wonderful sounds in the world instead of one of the most irritating. It was a pleasure even to be irritated by Starsky, because he wasn’t leaving, wasn’t politely shaking hands goodbye. He was here, with all his intensity and his messy, present, flawed, perfect humanity, and emotions. Distance he wouldn’t put up with, Hutch quietly retreating from him. And that made Hutch very, very happy.

“What is it, Starsk?” he asked at last, still watching his partner fondly. “What’s the second thing?” He halfway expected a condition, and he was willing to accept it whatever it might be.

“Oh.” Starsky put down his drink, now thoroughly slurped. “I forgot to tell you. When I bought that ship—well, remember the money you gave me, to invest? We were gonna buy a house together and fix it up.” He grinned, shy and proud suddenly, his chest puffing out just slightly, his grin warm, spreading, infectious. “I found the ship instead. That’s—well, that’s part of the reason I named it for both of us. Because it’s _ours._ Also I wanted to find you, and thought that would help. It did, because that guy—anyway, Hutch, half of it’s yours.” He reached out and squeezed Hutch’s arm across the table, impulsively, smiling warmth and aliveness into his partner’s—ex-partner’s, no, partner’s again—face. “You have half the stock in your name.”

“But—but I—” He floundered, gaping, blinking, appalled. “You did all the work. You did everything. I didn’t. I can’t—I shouldn’t even accept a salary. I should work for free shifting cargo, for years, just to pay off all you’ve done, and the rehab. I know it costs—and…”

“No.” Starsky shook his head, his hand tightening slightly, warmly, on Hutch’s arm. “It’s not like that with us. We’re _partners,_ Hutch. You don’t have to owe me, or pay me back, or earn it, or redeem yourself. It’s really yours. One half. I’ll show you the stock, made up all legal and everything. I’ve—I’ve saved your share of the profits for you, what I didn’t plow back into the business.” For a moment, he looked shy. “If you wanted, we could sell it and you’d have exactly half, and… probably retire if you wanted to. But I hope you won’t,” he added impulsively. “Because I love our ship, and we’re good, Hutch. At what we do. We’ll be even better working together. What do you say? Hm?” He gave Hutch his appealing smile, the one Hutch always privately thought of as his puppy-dog look.

Hutch swallowed, hard. “Aw, Starsk. Thank you. I could never, never deserve someone as—as generous as you. Yeah. Let’s do it, together. Whatever you want. It’ll be—it’ll be wonderful.”

Starsky was grinning, trying to smother it but unable to. He squeezed Hutch’s arm, giving it a shake. “It’s gonna be great, Hutch. We’ll see the universe together. It’s gonna be so great.”

“Buddy, it already is.”

They couldn’t stop grinning at each other.

_Seeing the universe with Starsky. Could this day—this life—get any better?_

Hutch didn’t think so. But he was willing to wait and find out.

 

 

>>

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Bee. :)


End file.
